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User blog:SkyrimsShillelagh/Nine Masks for Mother Ashan (Part 7)
Prelude Two parts in one day, yup. Nine Masks for Mother Ashna: Chapter 7 “Here we are.” Dacian said, hoping down from the carriage into the snow, walking towards the giant arch that lead into the ruin as Ira and Jean exited the carriage behind him, gawking. “The Labyrithian.” All three stared in awe at the massive sprawling ruins, lightly covered in falling snow. Jean held out his tongue to the flakes. He continued. “The Bromjunaar Sanctuary is in there. A link to the past. A time wound.” “The remnant of ancient Skyrim, the hold of its power.” Ira whispered. “It’s pretty cold.” Jean murmured, folding his arms over his chest. “Come, we don’t have much time.” Dacian started forwards. “No, wait a moment.” Ira said, holding up her hand. “We part ways here.” Dacian turned back to her, frowning. “You give up just as we finish?” “I’m not giving up. I just don’t want anything to do with what is going to go on in there.” “It will not be as bad as you think.” Dacian said. Jean’s eyes widened. There is was. A clue that what was going to happen wasn’t everything his father said would be. From what Jean knew it would be that bad. “I still wish no part of it.” Dacian considered her for a moment, before nodding slowly. “Then we part ways, good-bye, Ira.” “Stiff.” She mumbled, then turned to Jean, and gave him a warm smile. “Don’t let your father be too hard on you. You’ve got plenty of strengths on your own.” Jean smiled back at her, then extended his hand. “It was nice getting to know you, Mistress Ira.” “Oh, please.” The priestess said, reaching out and yanking Jean into a crushing hug, the boy practically smothered by her bulk. “Handshakes are for hard asses and strangers.” Dacian snorted. “Take care of yourself, alright?” The woman said, releasing him. “You’ll do fine.” “You take care as well.” Jean said. The woman gave him a polite nod, then turned to walk down the mountain side, down the path, out of view. “Good riddance.” Dacian muttered, ignoring the resulting glare Jean gave him. (Theme) Father and son produced into the ruins as the snow fell lightly around them, dancing in the wind. They traveled through a clearing, massive Nordic structures towering on either side. “What aren’t you telling me?” Jean asked as they walked, heading for a short set of stairs up a head. Dacian glanced down at him. Jean suppressed a flinch. Papa really could loom. “A lot.” Dacian answered, causing Jean to widen his eyes in shock. “I did not come out here on a whim, nor from information I discovered in old records. I came out here, because of this.” He reached underneath his cape, to the straps on his back, and came out with a mask, styled like a Dragon Priest’s but wooden. And the feel of magic this one gave was not one of strength, but simply a strange hum of energy. As if the wood was alive, somehow, mysterious rather than powerful. “It appeared to me. Out of nowhere. I sat down, and found it. Since that day I have had the same day, every night since. The dream is of my past, of the present at the time, and then of the future. Of me coming here.” He waved a hand at the ruins. “And now I am here.” “And you know that whatever is here can cure mother?” Surprisingly, Dacian shook his head. “I don’t know. I can feel it. Some inexplicable feeling that what I need is here.” They had climbed the steps and stood outside a short, squat structure, which looked like a large kiln. They walked around it, and Dacian pushed the doors open to the room inside. Bromjunaar Sanctuary, Jean supposed. A skeleton lay on the floor and the shrine, once a collection of the busts of eight Dragon Priests and then a bust of a dragon itself, was destroyed beyond repair. Both of them froze, neither expecting this. “But, we… we came all this way and… there’s nothing?” Jean said, voice weak. Jean hadn’t even considered what it would mean if the masks couldn’t be used for their purpose. Dacian didn’t respond, tapping his finger on the wooden mask in his hand. He seemed to be remembering something. Then, he lifted the mask to his face, and put it on. Dacian Bellamy vanished into thin air, leaving Jean staring dumbfounded at the spot his father had just been. - Dacian shook his head as the world formed around him. He was in the Sanctuary, that much was certain. But in this one, snow did not cover the floor, nor did the windows emit a draft. The doors behind him were shut and as he reached an arm back to shove them, they resisted. The room was sealed. The mask had brought him here, to the past. This had happened much before, when had tried the mask originally, in that ruin before that magnificent undead Nord had attacked for the first time. He turned his attention to the shrine, in total repair here. The eight busts, one dedicated to each priest—Volsung, Vokun, Rahgot, Otar, Krosis, Nahkriin, Morokei, Hevnoraak—all stood in perfect repair. And in the middle of them, four busts on each side of it, sat the replica of the dragon head. He felt oddly comfortable here. The room was warm and cozy. He imagined he could comfortably spent the better part of the day just lounging among this ancient place, in the distant pass, if he was not so pressed for time. Three masks were already in their places. He frowned, uncertain what to make of that. That meant the mage had been here, had placed them here. Had he a wooden mask of his own, then? It didn’t matter. Dacian was here and the man was not. He had the advantage, at the moment. He stepped forward, and slipped his masks into place over their respective busts. As he locked the last mask into place, there was a groan of stone, and the dragon’s mouth dropped open. Dacian watched it warily, stepping up to it, and peered down. Sitting in the stone dragon’s maw, resting again its fangs, was a golden mask. It was just like all other Dragon Priest masks except that it lacked the carved line that designated the mouth and had two tusks that protruded off its sides instead. He picked it up, cradling it in reverent hands. The smooth metal finish of it just felt… right to him. This was what he had been looking for. He removed the wooden mask from his face, and faded back into the present. When the world rocked back into place--snow settled on everything, the shrine destroyed—he began to tuck the golden mask away and turn around. An Altmer met his eyes. The elf, dressing in hooded Thalmor robes, stood in the doorway to the Sanctuary. And he had Jean in a tight grip, one arm wrapped around the boys chest, a second holding the edge of an elven dagger to his son’s throat. Jean’s eyes were wide in terror and the dagger was pressed so tightly to his neck that it had forced his chin up, exposing his throat. “Hello, Dacian.” The Altmer said, smiling grimly. Dacian’s eyes narrowed, immediately picking up on who this was. “Justicar Anaric.” The elf bowed his head slightly. “I see my reputation precedes me.” “More or less.” Dacian grunted, warily glancing from him to Jean. “You’re here for the mask?” He guessed. “You knew I’d come here? Now?” Anaric grinned. “Perceptive of you. I had to lure you in somehow. After you so handily took care of my men that I sent after you in Markarth, I realized it’d take more than brute strength to get those masks from you. Instead, I let you think you had outsmarted me. Poor Thedric, he had been very willing to go along with the plan, duping you into thinking you had at the disadvantage, that he had mistook you for an associate of mine. And you killed him.” Anaric shook his head. “I don’t think I like that very much.” He glanced down at Jean and brushed the cold metal of the dagger over the boy’s throat. Not applying any pressure, the movement was just to remind all parties who was in charge. Neither of them looked away. They never had, for the entirely encounter. “I wonder if I should repay you for it.” “You don’t need to do that.” Dacian said, voice at the edge between panic and rage. “I’ll give you the mask.” Anaric smiled widely, like they were two friends talking over tea. “Of course you will.” The smile dropped, and his expression grew cold. “You will.” He said again. “Here’s how it’s going to happen. I’m going to shove your son to the ground and at the same time you’re going to toss me the mask. If it doesn’t happen like that, well, I’m pretty quick with a blade. Do you understand?” “I understand.” Dacian replied. “Then here we go…” Anaric slowly removed the blade from Jean’s neck and then, once the dagger was out of his way, kicked the boy squarely in the rump. Jean was knocked to the ground, falling onto his chest with a grunt, and Dacian simultaneously tossed the mask to Anaric. The Altmer caught it, grinning, and held it at his side, never taking his eyes from Dacian’s. Then he frowned. He spared a glance down at his side. The mask in his hand was wooden. “Jean, run!” Dacian shouted, throwing the golden mask to his son, and then advancing on Anaric. The Justicer’s eyes grew wild, and with a snarl, he lunged forward, knife flashing. Dacian reached up both hands and caught Anaric’s arm at the forearm as the elf stabbed downwards, then drove his knee upwards into the man’s thigh. Anaric, however, simply ignored the blow, and instead forced his weight against the dagger, intent on driving it the rest of the way towards Dacian’s chest. The Breton shoved the elf’s arm away, and whizzed past his chest, barely missing it by an inch. The two immediately face off again and Anaric came at Dacian snarling like some kind of rabid animal. He drove the dagger towards Dacian’s side and the Breton moved quickly to parry it. He had pulled his cape underneath his shoulder and wrapped it around his hands. His palms protected, he briefly grasped the dagger and forced it away. Anaric recovered quickly though, moving with a second swipe towards Dacian’s shoulder, and the Bellamy had to step backwards to avoid it. “I’m going to killing you!” Anaric growled. “And then I’m going to kill your son and that stupid priestess! And then I’m going to kill everyone you ever met!” He forced a third stab at Dacian’s side, and the Breton deftly side stepped it. The dagger, however, became caught in his cape. Dacian tugged the cloth free at the same time Anaric yanked his dagger back. The cape cut away, it’s fabric tearing, but Anaric had pulled too hard. The force of his own pull sent him stumbling backwards. Dacian took the opportunity and suddenly leapt forward and drove his palm out, towards Anaric’s nose. The Altmer had backed into the shrine, gripping its ruined side, and as Dacian’s blow came down, he suddenly swung out with something. The rock connected with Dacian’s hand and there was a crunk as bone gave way to stone. Dacian cursed, reeling away and, just as he looked back, Anaric stepped up to him, keeping low to avoid the half-hearted punch Dacian threw, and delivered one deft slice to the Breton’s gut. Dacian’s eyes widened as he felt his flesh give way, the dagger cleaving a wound all the way across his abdomen, and then collapsed to the ground. Anaric stood over him, dagger dropping with blood halfway up the blade, a satisfied grin on his face. “Now, I think we got off on the wrong foot.” He said. “Let’s-” The Altmer paused, then did a quick circumspect the room of the Sanctuary. It was empty, except for Dacian and Anaric. Jean had vanished. Anaric screamed in rage, a futile sound of anger, before charging from the Sanctuary, leaving Dacian alone on the cold stone floor. He groaned, attempted to shove himself onto his back, and the rest was pain shooting through his body. He ended up lying still, and waited for the end. - Jean’s breaths came quick as he dashed through the ruins, clutching the mask tightly in both hands. He ran blindly, with no thought given to direction. When a scream broke the quiet stone air behind him, he ran even faster. The snow, which had seemed so beautiful when they first arrived, was suddenly an ominous thing. He kept running, running harder than he ever had before in his entire life. His own footsteps rang in his ears as his boots hit the ground. He knew he should have been quieter, but fear overran logic. He sprinted through an archway, and tripping, falling almost flat on his face, had he not lifted up his arms to absorb the impact from the fall. He landed on his elbows, pain shooting up his arms, and tumbled onto his back. He slowly sat up, and suppressed a scream as he saw what he had tripped on. A corpse, charred beyond recognition. A soul gem was in one of its hands, a slip of paper in the other. Breaths coming a thick gasps, he reached out to pry the paper from the cadaver’s rigid fingers, and then unfolded it with one hand, the other clutching the golden mask to his chest. "Enter Twice - Exit Only Once. Alteration will lead you to Destruction. Only Illusion shows the way to Restoration. Conjure not, but be conjured instead." The paper read. Jean frowned. What did that mean? He rose slowly, intent, then stopped dead as a voice broke the night air. “Jean? Jean?” It was the Altmer. Anaric. Not papa. “Jean, I only want to talk.” Footsteps echoed. He was coming closer. “I only need that mask, Jean, and then I’ll leave you and your dad alone. It’s alright.” He sounded so kind, so honest. Jean suppressed a horrified sob, then turned around and dashed deeper into the maze. (Part 8) Category:Blog posts Category:Stories Category:Return of the King